


The Old Adam: A story of redemption

by HolRose



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angry angels, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I really like my Eliots, Light Angst, M/M, OC, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), References to George Eliot, References to T.S. Eliot, Showers of fish, Slight references to suicide, The four bikers of the Apocalypse, The four other bikers of the apocalypse, The non-apocalypse, With apologies to John Milton, alternative POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 01:09:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20986325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolRose/pseuds/HolRose
Summary: It is after the End of the World that wasn't and everything is sort of normal again, largely because the world can no longer remember what happened that Saturday. But what if somebody can still remember it all, how are they coping with what they have seen, what can it all mean and what are the Ineffable Idiots going to have to do about it?





	1. Chapter 1

_‘Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.’_

T.S. Eliot The Wasteland

Thomas hadn’t slept for five days, not since that Saturday when ‘It’ happened. He hadn’t eaten much either. It was bad enough at the time but had only become worse since then, partly because no-one seemed to remember what had happened that day, but mostly because he now fully understood what the implications were for him – where he was heading and exactly what that meant. Every time he closed his eyes, the events of that day replayed in his mind. He did not dare allow sleep to come with its attendant dreams in case his tormented brain decided it was time to relive what he had experienced.

After speaking to all of his friends and work colleagues on the Sunday, he had spent two days drunk, but that really hadn’t helped, even when he was totally intoxicated, the images wouldn’t go away and the hangover had been worse than any he had previously experienced.

After that came the endless panic attacks one after the other; his stomach a bowl of acid, his body slick with sweat, coating his back, pooling on his belly, his scalp prickly and crawling with fear. He had come to the very end of his resources by Thursday, and after spending three days in his flat curled up under his quilt, shaking and sweating, he had come out for a walk to get some air in the hope that the change of scenery would help in some way.

After meandering through the streets aimlessly, he found himself by the river, walking the broad path that runs along the Thames near Blackfriars Bridge, with its ornamental wrought iron lamps providing a mellow light over the waterside. It was very late and there were few people about. Thomas crossed to the side of the pavement and leaned on the parapet to look down at the water. The river was in spate after heavy rain over the previous few days and the rapidly moving water glinted, oily with the reflection of lights on the opposite bank. Fragmented thoughts ran through Thomas’ exhausted and befuddled mind. He thought vaguely about a Van Gough painting [1](%E2%80%9D#note1%E2%80%9D) he had seen a reproduction of once. It was just like that here, a starry sky and the colours of the lights on the water.

Thomas considered what he remembered about the artist’s life, his responses to the stresses he experienced: cutting off part of his ear and his eventual messy suicide, and came to a decision. He had had enough, was utterly depleted and entirely out of options. He would give himself to the river and send his mind and body and all his fears out to sea as a solution to his agony. Once this thought settled in his mind he felt a slight lifting of the oppression weighing him down; it would be a relief to find an ending here.

***

It has been noted in another text that God does not care to play games of dice with their creation and this is most definitely the case; we are all loved and cared for even if the Godhead decides to show this in a very roundabout and downright peculiar way at times. However, the Almighty does have a penchant for games that combine chance and skill and can be said to have the ultimate in poker faces, moving as they do, in a mysterious way. Five days after the non-apocalypse at Tadfield Airbase, the Supreme Being has a few issues remaining from the event that they wish to tie up. One particularly important long-term plan, brought to a head by the events of that Saturday, is going to be resolved tonight using two of their best loved, if not necessarily entirely competent, agents on earth. They just hoped that there wouldn’t be any fuck-ups this time [2](%E2%80%9D#note2%E2%80%9D).

***

Since being present at the End of the World that wasn’t and their intervention to stop the war between Heaven and Hell, Crowley and Aziraphale have been devoting time both to each other and doing the things that they like best. Spending time together has been an unspoken imperative for both of them and their mutual enjoyment of this has been all the sweeter for the knowledge that they are free to do so without fear of censure from either of their respective bureaucracies, for a while, at any rate. As a consequence, the five days since That Saturday have been spent on outings of various kinds, including trips to particularly memorable places for them both from their shared past over 6000 years, to indulge in a spot of reminiscence. There has been one picnic in the South Downs area and dinners at beautiful eateries all around the world, wherever their fancy has taken them. Physical contact between them has increased, with the occasional hug and frequent arm and knee touching. Both feel the need separately to reassure themselves that the other is near, no longer in danger and not going anywhere. This has been an unconscious development for the most part and remains uncommented on. This Thursday evening had been spent most enjoyably at a performance of Antony and Cleopatra in the new Globe Theatre [3](%E2%80%9D#note3%E2%80%9D), going on from there for a late dinner at a sensational little place where Aziraphale has been a regular for years[4](%E2%80%9D#note4%E2%80%9D), with not extraordinary, but certainly satisfactory quantities of very good red wine and then brandy. Both angel and demon are in a relaxed and companionable mood as they make their way home the long way across London, enjoying the night air and each other’s company.

***

Thomas has climbed on top of the parapet and stands there, swaying slightly, with his eyes fixed on the dark water below him, wringing his hands together as he prepares to jump. He feels almost drunk with fatigue and the confusion of his endless thought spiral. He can hear voices approaching from his left, two voices, one clear and beautifully enunciated, speaking quickly, the other a dry, sexy drawl. There is laughter. He had better do this now before they come any closer. A snatch of a poem he once read drifts across his mind and his lips move as he closes his eyes…

‘Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song…’

He is about to fall. His eyes roll back in his head and he tenses before he lets go of his body’s weight when he feels two sets of hands grabbing him by each elbow to halt his fall and lift him, lowering him gently back to the pavement. He is too confused and overcome to wonder how anyone could manage to do this, given that he is a good eight feet above ground level. When his feet hit the ground, he passes out.

***

Aziraphale is regaling Crowley with stories of looking for a host body after he had been discorporated.

‘… apparently they call it the Rapture and believe that the saved will be swept up by God as the apocalypse happens, the saved being themselves and their friends of course – ha! So I set them straight immediately, perhaps I was a little harsh, there was quite a lot of sobbing in the room as I was leaving that body [5](%E2%80%9D#note5%E2%80%9D), but I do feel those people deserved to hear the truth…Oh, I say Crowley, what is that young man doing?’ 

Angel and demon, seeing Thomas teetering on the coping stone of the parapet run towards him, manifesting their wings as they hasten forwards and into the air. Hovering beside him they each grab an elbow and take his weight, just as he is about to drop. They carry the insensible body of the youth to a bench where they place him down gently and stand, looking at him while they winch in their wings. 

Before them on the bench is a tall, well-made young man. Crowley thinks in passing that he is perhaps the most beautiful human male that he has ever seen [6](%E2%80%9D#note6%E2%80%9D). He has a pale face topped with a halo of white blond curls falling to just above collar length. His face is an oval with fine cheekbones, a straight nose and full lips above a strong jaw. It is a face that Botticelli would have liked to paint placed on a body that Michelangelo would certainly have wished to sculpt. All told, he was the type of young man that Leonardo would have liked to – well, you get the picture.

‘There’s something very wrong here Crowley, I can feel it’ says Aziraphale, looking worriedly at Crowley beside him. ‘Hmm, I think I got that Angel, what with the whole flinging himself in the river thing.’

‘No’, answers the angel seriously, not rising to Crowley’s sarcasm. ‘It’s something more than the usual despair that humans can feel sometimes, this goes deeper. I think we should try to help.’

‘You and your waifs and strays, Angel’, smiles Crowley, looking at his friend with affection.

‘Yeah, ‘course, let’s see what we can do, that’s pretty much what we signed up for recently anyway, isn’t it, looking after the humans?’

Aziraphale smiles back at Crowley, ‘Indeed’, He looks thoughtfully down at Thomas, ‘Perhaps to start with we should see if we can talk to him without frightening him further and find out exactly what is troubling him so grievously.’ He sits on the bench next to the boy.

‘You poor soul’, he says, taking the boy’s hand in both of his and rubbing it gently between his palms in an attempt to warm it. ‘What can have brought you to think of such a thing, to give up on life, whilst quoting Eliot, of all people?’

‘Eliot?’ says Crowley, ‘I like him’

‘Not George, Crowley, and I keep telling you, she was a woman’ (Aziraphale has been reading Crowley Silas Marner in the evenings while he lies on the sofa with his head in the angel’s lap. He is loving it so far [7](%E2%80%9D#note7%E2%80%9D).)

‘No, I mean Thomas’, continues Aziraphale,

‘Wha?’ says Thomas, coming to and opening his eyes a little.

Thomas has no idea where he is for a second. Then he looks to his right and realises that he is on a bench sitting next to a kindly looking gentleman with cherubic blond curls wearing strangely old-fashioned clothing who is looking at him with some concern. The next thing he notices is that his hand is being held and rubbed gently and that he feels much calmer than he has for days. There is something comforting about this man, even though there is part of his mind that is telling him that this is all extremely odd.

‘Ah, there you are, dear boy’ says the apparition, smiling sweetly at him. Thomas then notices that there is another man, red-headed and slim, and, rather oddly for this time of night, wearing sunglasses, pacing about the bench, watching the first man intently. Then it all comes back to him, he was about to sort things out and these two must have stopped him somehow.

‘Oh no,’ groans Thomas ‘Why did you stop me? I just wanted it all to…’ He pulls his hand away from Aziraphale’s and sits forward, thrusting both hands into his hair and holding his head, looking down at his shoes.

‘Would it help to talk?’ asks the blond man ‘Perhaps it seems strange to you that we have intervened like this and of course, you do not know us, but I can assure you that we mean you no harm and would very much like to help if we can’ he went on.

The other man stops his pacing and interjects ‘Just think of us as two guardian angels out for a stroll.’

The blond man looks over at his friend, rolls his eyes and tuts. He looks back at Thomas.

‘Perhaps we should introduce ourselves, I am Az – er, I am Alan’ he winces slightly as he says this and the other man stifles a laugh. ‘And this is Anthony’

He narrows his eyes at ‘Anthony’ who immediately makes a deeply serious face.

Thomas looks vaguely around at them and says faintly, ‘Nice to meet you, I’m Thomas.’

He is confused. This _couple_ (he thinks this is what is going on here given the obvious dynamic between the two) are trying to help him and he isn’t at all sure if he wants to be helped or if they can help him even if he does want them to.

‘Th-thank you for the offer’ he continues ‘But I don’t think you will be able to help, that talking will help. If I tell you what has happened to me, I don’t think you will believe me, nobody else believes me…. It was so awful,’ his voice sinks to a whisper as he remembers it all again. ‘It was so real, the _fire_ and the _fish_ and the buh-_blood_ and what ha-happened to all the _people_… and, oh God, the worst thing, the thing I can’t stop thinking about, the _angels_’

His voice rises to a wail and cuts off suddenly. Thomas throws his head back and looks into the starry sky, his eyes watering, little whimpers stuttering out from behind his clenched teeth. He looks down again and continues, quietly.

‘And then it all just – went away, like it had never happened at all. And I came home and spoke to everyone and since then I have felt that I am going mad because I am the only person who remembers any of it. And I know. I know what is going to happen to me and I can’t cope with it any more. I can’t do it….’

Crowley can see that Thomas is shaking and crouches down next to him, placing his hand on his arm and shaking it gently.

‘Come on’, he says gently ‘It’s alright. I think my friend and I both know exactly what you are talking about. Tell us what you saw and I can pretty much guarantee that we will definitely believe you.’

He glances over at Aziraphale who is sitting with his mouth in an ‘o’ of shock and recognition.

Thomas looks across at Aziraphale who hastily rearranges his features into an encouraging smile.

‘Yes, I think we definitely shall, he says, briskly, ‘sharing your problems can be restorative, and it may be that we can help you with what is troubling you so much.’

Thomas allows himself to be encouraged and clears his throat before beginning his tale.

‘It was late Saturday morning and I was driving out of town to meet someone, nothing seemed unusual at first. It was quite a nice day and I remember enjoying the drive down to the access road for the M25…’

  1. Starry night over the Rhone September 1888
  2. Okay, we have a gender-neutral God in this story. Let’s face it, the Judaeo-Christian God is most definitely not binary, being depicted frequently as a ‘worship two, get one free’ deal. Two of those manifestations tend to be referred to canonically as being male but it is anyone’s guess how the Holy Ghost identifies. As for other religions, it is a bit of a free for all when you think about it. Some of them manifest in multiple ways. Some of them have one kind of body with the head of an entirely different species on the top. Don’t get me started on the ancient Greek and Roman ones, I mean, showers of rain? swans? I think gender-neutral covers it best. The whole issue is extremely fluid and apt to change over time and as we are not in the position to make a polite enquiry, let’s hope they take it as it is meant – respectfully.
  3. Crowley had recognised one line, tapping Aziraphale on the shoulder and saying, ‘I gave him that one, remember?’ and looked ridiculously pleased with himself for the remainder of the performance.
  4. Regretfully, the author is unable to give details of where exactly this is in case it becomes too popular and is spoiled for him.
  5. Marvin O. Bagman hasn’t been the same since that day, he remembers what happened too, at least he remembers something and it isn’t pleasant. He has given up his TV show and doesn’t go out much anymore.
  6. Aziraphale doesn’t tend to notice that sort of thing so much, and besides, he thinks all humans are beautiful, that’s angels for you.
  7. The book too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas explains what he saw the previous Saturday.

_‘… so many, I had not thought Death had undone so many…’_ T.S. Eliot The Wasteland

Thomas was in a cheery mood that Saturday, he was meeting a man in Oxfordshire to conclude a bit of business and things in his life generally were going well for him. When he had set out, it had been an extremely pleasant late summer day, still warm enough to be in shirt-sleeves. As he was driving out of the capital, he noticed that it was definitely getting warmer, stickily humid, even a bit oppressive. He rolled down the windows as he drove towards the road that would take him to the M25 in an attempt to get some air into the car. The warmth increased and the sky above the moving car darkened. Thomas squinted sideways out of his window, surprised at the sudden change of light and thinking that a storm must be brewing.

He was looking up when the first fish started to descend. All of a sudden, the air was thick with lithe shapes, iridescent scales gleaming in rainbow colours as they poured from the sky, their bodies bouncing and sliding all over the road. The car shuddered with the impact of a positive _shoal_ of fish hitting the roof, and a plump mackerel slapped onto his windscreen and slid down slowly on to the bonnet. The air smelled of brine and, unsurprisingly, fish. Thomas slowed his vehicle, swerving to avoid a particularly large halibut [1](%E2%80%9D#note1%E2%80%9D) that landed with a splat in front of his car, and pulled in to the side of the road, watching in disbelief as other vehicles travelling in front and alongside him skidded and careened around, some crashing into each other and the barrier between the lanes. The downpour stopped as suddenly as it had started. He could see lorries, cars and vans stopped ahead of him, the fish piled around them. Many of the bodies were still moving; an octopus tentacle waved lazily from the passenger seat of a convertible while the terrified driver looked at it in disbelief. He could see several lobsters scuttling underneath an articulated lorry, looking as if they were seeking shelter. Thomas left his car and started walking, numb with shock. He had heard about things like this before but had always imagined that any showers of fish would be small stuff, like whitebait, not bloody great cod and hammerhead sharks. He decided he would take a walk up to where the road climbed to a hill just ahead of him, where he thought he should be able to see down to the M25, just to see if the emergency services were on their way to sort all this out. He passed quite a few people in their cars, staring out at the piscine carnage, clearly not sure what to do next. There was quite a lot of shouting.

It wasn’t long before a police vehicle turned up and two officers started directing drivers to reverse their vehicles and make their way back along the road. The officers soon had a lane clear and that was when Thomas heard the drone of loud motorbike engines. It wasn’t long before the sound resolved itself into something ear-shatteringly raucous and Thomas could make out 4 figures in helmets on their machines heading down the free lane. The bikes looked…odd. Thomas couldn’t focus on them properly, but he was aware that they didn’t look like any make of bike he had seen before. One of them was a vibrant red, one was white with a plume of filthy smoke issuing from its exhaust, there was a very pared-down black number and the final one was constructed of some kind of open framework, a stained ivory colour. Thomas couldn’t see how it could possibly be holding together and there was a distinct lack of petrol tank. They roared past him and as Thomas followed the progress of the quartet, a backwash of intense feelings hit him, one after the other. There was a flash of rage, a momentary feeling of suffocation, extreme fear and then, what was it? Yes, _hunger_. He had no time to consider what this might mean before 4 other bikers came into view, just about keeping up with the first lot but not travelling quite as fast. They looked your normal Hell’s Angels types, huge blokes in filthy leathers and denim cut-offs on well-kept machines. The first set of riders were now heading towards where the road was blocked with a pile of fish and several large lorries jack-knifed across the carriageway. The police officers were standing near this gesticulating wildly for them to stop, but the riders swept past them. Thomas tensed, preparing for the crash but the 4 bikers kept on going. For a moment they were on the road yet not on the road and then… Thomas had absolutely no idea how they had done it but they were past the obstacle and carrying on their progress along the clear highway beyond the obstruction. The 4 figures following ploughed one by one into the pile of fish and lorries, each one making a hideous whump as they impacted into the flesh and metal.

Bewildered, Thomas continued his walk up the road to where the M25 could be seen from the slight rise. He stopped. His mind was not really processing very much anymore as the day went from odd, to strange, to weird, to downright terrifying. The sight that greeted him at the top of the hill caused him to stop and stare in utter disbelief. Where the M25 London Orbital Motorway should have been, a busy multi-lane highway ordinarily humming with traffic, full of vehicles driven by people entering and leaving the capital, was an inferno, a river of fire. The entire road network, blocked with nose-to-tail traffic, was on fire. Smoke rolled above the ribbon of flame and a steady heat haze shimmered above this, rather oddly meeting what looked like freezing fog just above that. Above the crackle and roar of the flames, Thomas could make out a rhythmic chanting that made his hair stand on end. There would be no getting through that. He could see fire engines and more police cars sitting on the slip road further down, their personnel unable to do any more than stare at the scene, open-mouthed.

Thomas turned around and walked slowly back in the direction of his vehicle. He didn’t want to look at the burning road any longer and felt an overwhelming need to sit down. .Other people were milling around, crying and gesticulating but he looked away and didn’t engage with anyone. At this point, he heard a noise like a very large swarm of angry bees overhead. Looking up, he saw something white and pink going past just above head height. It was going too fast for him to be able to see exactly what it was. As it passed he heard a drawn-out sound of exhilaration. It sounded like a woman’s voice gleefully shouting ‘Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!’

Thomas reached his car, got in and laid his arms across the steering wheel, bringing his head down to rest upon them. It was some time after this that he became aware of loud music approaching, something with squalling guitars that he recognised as an old hit from the 1970s. It appeared that someone with a very loud in-car entertainment system was driving up the hard shoulder past the devastation, some nutter determined to continue their journey despite everything that was going on. He looked up and was just in time to see a vintage car pass him being driven by a grinning lunatic in sunglasses who did not appear to be affected by anything that was going on at all. Thomas barely registered the oddness of this. This was because he was starting to feel very peculiar indeed.

Thomas shut his eyes and tried to make some sense of the things he had just seen. What the fuck was going on? He could have just about reconciled himself to the fish, you heard about bizarre natural phenomena occasionally, but the rest of it was totally insane. On top of this, he was feeling distinctly unwell. His head was buzzing and felt like it was being slowly squeezed in a large vice, with pain building up around his temples and tension in his neck. His throat was constricted making it difficult to swallow, and a heavy sense of dread sat in his stomach. He was aware that most vehicles were leaving the area, turning round and heading back into London. Still he sat there until the rising nausea he felt became overwhelming. He needed air so he got out of his car again and leaned against it, looking up at the sky.

Whatever this was, it was still happening, nothing looked even remotely normal. The sky was a sickly yellow-green colour. It _boiled_ with heavy dark clouds, massing and building, rolling across the heavens, bringing an unnatural twilight to the summer afternoon. The wind was rising, forceful gusts hitting Thomas and bending the spindly trees by the side of the road with a roaring rushing sound. The heavy sky was all at once coruscated with sheet lightning playing amongst the clouds. Rain spattered suddenly, huge drops of it warm against the skin of his forearms. He looked down and there was rusty water dripping off his skin, the tang of iron permeated the air and the force of the shower increased. Thomas regarded his wet arm, the red track marks of the droplets marking his skin, spots spreading as stains on the white of his shirt.

It was raining blood.

He cried out in shock. The wind was howling now, the rain a torrent, plastering his hair and clothes to his body. With a whirring noise, a huge swarm of large insects flew past, several hitting Thomas on the face and body. They lighted on the car and crawled over it. Locusts. He jumped and screamed, raking at his hair to dislodge the chittering bodies that landed there. The sky continued to darken until Thomas could no longer see. The storm appeared to be at its height, the wind screaming, the noise making it impossible to think. He wrapped his arms around his shaking body, slid down the side of the car and sat there in a crumpled heap, leaning his head upon his knees. He stayed like that for some time.

Eventually, after an incalculable time, the insects vanished and the rain eased off. The wind dropped. It was as dark as a winter night. Thomas looked up and he could see the stars, all of them, there was no other light apart from a residual red glow from the motorway fire a few miles away. Everything became unnaturally quiet.

The heavens _burned_.

Suddenly the stars were screaming down from the firmament, the sky full of streamers of light as they fell like some hellish firework display. Thomas shuddered as he sat there, his head pounded and felt as if it would burst. He knew what this was, he remembered reading about it when he was younger in Religious Education class at school. But there was also a new knowledge, something that had dropped into his brain along with the pain he was feeling. This new understanding left him reeling.

Thomas, when he thought about it at all, didn’t believe in a deity or life after death. The events of this day had precipitated an overwhelming ontological crisis in him. It turned out that he was totally wrong about absolutely everything, and to make it all very, very much worse Armageddon was happening, right here, right now. The devastating understanding of all that this meant crashed against his mind like a wrecking ball: the end of everything, every person, every creature, everything. Nothing left but a puddle of burning goo.

After a time, Thomas wasn’t sure exactly how long, the darkness began to change and light filtered back as the sky cleared as quickly as it had been plunged into gloom. Thomas lifted his head, hopefully. Perhaps that was it, perhaps this _thing_ was ending now. Maybe he had been imagining this new understanding. Maybe he was just overwrought, although when he thought about it, this wasn’t terribly likely given all the stuff that had just been happening. But humankind is distinguished from other beings by the presence of an imagination and the eternal springing of hope in the most unlikely of circumstances, so he hoped, and raised his head, standing up and looking once more at the sky.

The heavens were clear all the way to the horizon, no clouds marred a limpid vista of the most delicate eggshell blue. The sun blazed low in the sky. There was a peaceful moment and then the tension in the air became exquisite. The air was all at once grainy, crystalline and Thomas felt more than heard a pure, high note sounding above and around him. He squinted up at the empyrean, blinked and understood that everything was _utterly different_ – and yet that it had been this way all along. The blue sky was not air, he realised, but _angels_, a multitude, a _throng_, each one standing wingtip to wingtip with the next, rows of them spiralling upwards until he could no longer distinguish individual forms, all of them blazing with impossible brightness. They wore armour, their golden hair streamed behind them, they carried swords, their faces were stern. The air between heaven and earth sizzled and hummed with their righteous anger, _terrible as an army with banners_. As Thomas continued to look, frozen with terror, he saw that the sun wasn’t actually the sun anymore, or not entirely. As he gazed upwards it resolved itself into another angel, huge and intimidating, and it was speaking with a loud voice in a language older than time, encouraging the celestial troops to battle.

Thomas started to cry.

Thomas sighs as he finishes his tale and looks up at Aziraphale beside him.

‘It was then that I knew, it came to me like a thought planted directly into my mind, I knew exactly what it meant. I… I’ve done some very bad things…’

‘Oh, surely not, dear boy…’ Aziraphale tries to comfort the youth but he shakes his head emphatically.

‘No, you don’t understand. I knew exactly where I was going and there was nothing that I could possibly do to take it all back and stop it from happening. You see, after witnessing all that, I knew I was _damned_ and I was just about to go straight to hell’

Aziraphale looks across at Crowley. Angels can be terrible, he knows this, when they are in full battle mode, nothing is more awe inspiring. Crowley looks back at Aziraphale. He knows all about how Thomas must have been feeling, that moment when you realise you have Fallen, the worst feeling he had ever experienced. Aziraphale raises his eyebrows, signalling by his expression that he feels some demonic intervention would be helpful at this point. Crowley stops pacing and sits down on the left of Thomas.

‘That must have been terrifying, it’s not the kind of knowledge that anyone wants to have, their own damnation…’ he grimaces, remembering.

‘But there is always forgiveness,’ interjects Aziraphale. ‘The Almighty is loving, if you repent, there comes forgiveness and love.’

‘No!’ Thomas’ pallor increases and his lips tighten ‘It was made very clear to me, there would be no forgiveness. I was going to hell’

He looks away and starts crying softly.

‘I was frozen for ages, sitting up at the side of the road in my car just waiting for it to happen. And then it just… changed and everything went away, like it had never been there in the first place. There were birds singing and traffic was going past and eventually I managed to drive myself back to my flat. Since then I have spoken to everyone I know and no-one really remembers Saturday. It’s like they have had their memories wiped. No-one else saw the stuff I saw, they just think they had their normal Saturday, although if you ask them what they were doing, they go a bit vague and say stuff like; ‘I dunno, the usual things I suppose’. But it is all I can think about, the fact that I am _damned_ and there is nothing I can do to change that. Every time I shut my eyes I see those _angels_ and they are furious and fiery; by far the most terrifying things I have ever witnessed. I can’t live with it any more’

He looks at the two beings sitting on either side of him, sniffing and wiping his eyes.

‘Thank you both so much for caring and talking with me but it isn’t going to help, because as soon as you have gone, I am going to find a way to make this stop and face up to what is going to happen anyway, I can’t live like this’.

Angel and demon look across Thomas at each other and a silent understanding passes between them. They have helped people deal with extreme events before, back in the past during times of human hardship. Crowley was particularly busy in the 14th century and still has nightmares about the years of constant war, famine and plague. They had worked together on occasion, when things had been particularly tough, telling their respective head offices that the small miracles performed then arose from thwarting each other.

’But you are so young’, says Aziraphale, ‘What can you possibly have done to make you feel that you have no hope of salvation, my dear?’

  1. It might have been a flounder, he wasn’t sure, fish identification not being his strong suit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of background on Thomas.

‘_Hurt, he’ll never be hurt – he’s made to hurt other people_.’ George Eliot _Silas Marner_

Thomas had always been able to get people to do what he wanted. Even as a child, people were keen to do his bidding, give him things, put themselves out for him. He was a beautiful baby and grew into an appealing infant and young boy. By his teens he was dashing and handsome, there were no awkward, spotty years for Thomas. Along with his looks came a winning personality, he was charming, warm, witty and good company. People, adults and children alike, were drawn to him. In his company, people felt special and when he spoke with them, it felt like there was no-one else in the room and that they were the most fascinating and attractive people in the world.

The only problem was that Thomas, beautiful, charming Thomas, had no conscience, no moral sense and was incapable of love. Thomas followed his whims, chasing what made him happy and kept him entertained. He didn’t feel many emotions, was easily bored and didn’t really care about anyone or anything very deeply. The strongest emotion he felt was anger, and that only rarely because he usually got his own way. If he was evil, it wasn’t in the classic sense that demons, say, can be evil, he didn’t machinate and connive towards doing bad, he just did the things he needed to get him what he wanted. Rules were restrictive and made for breaking, even when those rules happened to be the law of the land. It was a very human kind of wickedness, personified by an absence of all the things that make humans good.

This made him powerful and also extremely dangerous to be around. Many were the people who had been brought low by Thomas in his careless way through the world so far. He continually treated people like things, and manipulated them this way and that to achieve the result that he was looking for.

At his prestigious private school he was a sought-after friend and had a large gang who accompanied him in all his exploits. He didn’t bully anyone directly, but made it known that seeing people bullied by others amused him, so some of his friends obliged. One lonely boy had been driven to a suicide attempt after months of persecution by Thomas’ friends, while he smiled away in the background, watching. The boy’s parents removed him from the school after he came out of hospital with bandages on his arms.

A little light dabbling in drug dealing ensured that some of Thomas’ friends failed their most important exams and could not go on to the careers they had chosen. Thomas took some of the stuff himself, of course, but made sure that he did enough work to scrape through with the grades he needed.

Thomas came from an affluent family. His parents adored their second child, their first born son, and did all they could to give him every advantage in life. He was supported and encouraged in every endeavour, and his mother and father tried to give him the moral grounding that had proved so enduring with his older sister. What Thomas became, or perhaps always was, was not caused by anything to do with the _nurture_ he received; his parents were decent, honest and kind, no, with Thomas it was all _nature_. He treated his family with an amused indifference, impervious to his mother’s distress when he showed them all how little he thought of them. He would hug her briefly and laugh when she cried and when his father tried to talk to him, man to man, Thomas would sit there, smiling, making it clear from his expression that he wasn’t really listening. His older sister gave up on him, relieved to leave home for university when she was 18, leaving 15 year old Thomas as the dominant force in the house.

His Grandparents doted on him, more so than on Kate, his sister. They did love her, of course, but Thomas was their darling, their golden boy. When, in his teens, Thomas wanted to make some extra money for himself via an e-currency scheme, they were convinced by his bright-eyed enthusiasm for the idea, and made him a generous loan. Despite making a lot of money on the venture, Thomas never paid them back, always finding a plausible sounding excuse when asked about it by his increasingly exasperated father. With the bulk of their savings gone, there were things that they could no longer afford to do after that, and they were too proud to ask for help.

After he left for Cambridge and came into his trust fund at 18, Thomas cut his entire family off without a word of explanation, ghosted the lot of them. They were not told of his degree result [1](%E2%80%9D#note1%E2%80%9D) or invited to his graduation. When he bought a flat in London, he did not inform them where he was living. His mother, father and grandparents were largely baffled at this, rather than angry, blaming themselves. They questioned what they could possibly have had done wrong and remained painfully sad at the loss of their beautiful boy. If asked about his family Thomas just said that they had ‘disappointed’ him and did not encourage further discussion on the topic.

Thomas attracted a lot of attention from both sexes and took his pleasures fairly indiscriminately, according to what would benefit him the most. There was a trail of broken hearts and ruined lives behind him on his way through school and university. When he was with a partner, they felt truly blessed as he lavished his attention on them, but it was only a matter of time in each case before he would walk away, and whatever they thought they had with him would vanish. He never apologised and barely explained but was popular enough that the wounded could only retire from the field and say nothing, becoming another in the long line of his exes, licking their wounds alone. His current partner, Charlie, was chosen largely because he was extremely well-connected, coming from a minor aristocratic family, with a father who was an MP and a mother who worked high up in the charity sector. It was unfortunate for Charlie that he was a sweet young man who had quite fallen in love with Thomas. Thomas had already made him rather unhappy with his unwillingness to commit and, although they had fun times and great sex together, Charlie frequently wondered where it is all going to end and if he was to have his heart broken completely.

After graduation, Thomas undertook a few internships, ruining the career of one senior woman executive at a firm where he had a placement when he encouraged her to become involved in fraudulent activities. She had fallen for him very hard, signed the papers he gave her, having misplaced her usual judgement on such matters, and was currently on remand awaiting her trial for grand larceny. There was no written evidence of Thomas’ involvement and she remained smitten enough not to mention him when interviewed after her arrest.

These days, Thomas was working for a prestigious law firm. His life plan was to become involved with some high-profile legal cases, make lots of money, secure his place on the board of a few companies and then get into politics. The upheaval the country was experiencing owing to its decision to leave the European Union was something he felt he could take advantage of and his speculation on the stock exchange against the misfortunes of sterling had already netted him some fine dividends. He was building up business connections and everything was very much going the way he had hoped. There were so many unscrupulous people out there only too willing to do business with this brilliant young lawyer who was so persuasive and charming. He currently had his eye on a chemical company whose board had little truck with international law, never mind health and safety legislation.

No-one had actually, died as a result of Thomas’ activities, yet, but it was only a matter of time. Everything was in place for him to become someone who was capable of causing global devastation once he attained the height of his, considerable and very human, powers.

  1. A first. He slept with all of his tutors, so his coursework always received top marks. He didn’t have to do this as he was clever enough not to need to, but it amused him to do it. Some of the older ones remain confused about what, exactly, they were doing at the time, not realising that they were up against a force of nature and couldn’t really help themselves.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A promise and some ancient magic

‘_He listened docilely, that he might come to understand better what this life was, from which…he had stood aloof as from a strange thing wherewith he could have no communion_.’ George Eliot, _Silas Marner_

Thomas has the grace to look ashamed after he finishes his account of his life so far. There is a silence.

‘Wow’ says Crowley, ‘that’s, uh, pretty impressive…’

‘We are not here to judge’ says, Aziraphale, primly, ‘Thomas needs our help.’

He turns to Thomas, ‘First of all, we should tell you that we do believe you, everything you have spoken about happened just as you describe it. We remember it too.’ He nods at Crowley, encouraging him to speak.

‘We think we can help you, but first we need to tell you who we are and what that shitshow was you saw, it is important that you know how it all ended. It’s pretty much all okay now.’ Crowley nods back to Aziraphale to continue.

Aziraphale…. blinks, and settles back further on to the bench, turning to look at Thomas directly.

‘I am an angel, and my friend Crowley here is a demon’

‘Y-you are an angel?’ stutters Thomas, eyes widening with fear.

‘Yes’ Aziraphale lifts both hands, palms out, to his shoulders and waggles his fingers, smiling apologetically whilst glowing faintly, exuding as much geniality as he thinks Thomas can stand. Thomas turns his head.

‘And you are a d-d…’

‘Demon, yes’ responds Crowley, pushing his sunglasses down his nose and looking over them to let Thomas see his golden eyes, raising his eyebrows and smiling. Thomas tries to get up, the need to run away foremost in his mind. He finds that he cannot rise from his seat on the bench.

‘Please try not to worry my dear,’ says Aziraphale, patting his knee lightly. ‘I am not like the angels you saw on Saturday, I don’t wish to fight nor to bring about the end of the world and Crowley is mostly harmless.’ He winks at his companion, who makes a small hissing noise. ‘We have both given up our allegiance to Heaven and Hell. We are on the side of humanity now. We call that _our side_. I think perhaps the first thing we must do is tell you exactly what happened. It all started in the garden…’

Crowley frowns and hushes Aziraphale with a look.

‘Actually, it all started in a graveyard, eleven years ago….’

‘…and then he put it all back.’

‘What, all of it? Even the fish?’

‘Yes, even the fish.’

‘To tell you the truth,’ says Aziraphale, stretching, ‘I think he made some improvements if anything. He has a very sweet sense of humour. There has been a lot more love around in the world since then, I can feel it’

‘People are less anxious’ put in Crowley.

‘A few wars have been averted, lots of friendships have turned into love, and some people separating have suddenly discovered that they don’t want to, separate, that is’ adds Aziraphale.

‘Quite a few babies have been conceived’ says Crowley, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

‘But that leaves us with the problem of you, Thomas’ says Aziraphale. ‘There must be a reason that you still remember when everyone else has forgotten.’

‘Perhaps it is another part of the Great effing Ineffable Plan’ Crowley suggests, rolling his eyes.

‘Perhaps it is!’ says Aziraphale, his face brightening, ‘it could be that the Almighty is offering you this as a chance to repent.’ He looks questioningly at Thomas. ‘Do you feel sorry for what you have been doing up until now?

‘I definitely do’, says Thomas, thoughtfully, ‘I didn’t ever think about the people I hurt, before, I just focussed on me, what I wanted, what was fun. People talk about empathy but I didn’t understand what that was exactly. My friends would sometimes speak about being hurt and affected by things but I never understood how that worked because nothing ever affected me. I get all that now. I used to feel anger if I didn’t get what I wanted, but otherwise I didn’t feel very much at all. That has changed absolutely. This whole experience has changed everything.’ He looks up, hopefully, ‘Do you think you can help me?’

Aziraphale assumes a stern look and his voice becomes sonorous with a strange harmonic echo.

‘If we do help you’, he says, ‘You must first promise that you will turn away from sin…’

Thomas gazes at the angel, round eyed, fear creeping over his features once more as he regards the gently glowing figure next to him.

‘Angel, tone it down a bit, you’re scaring him.’ chides Crowley.

Aziraphale’s voice returns to its normal pitch and the penumbra around his head fades.

‘I am so sorry, got a bit carried away there, I mean stop doing all the kind of things you have just been telling us about.’ He frowns slightly.

‘In fact, it has to be more positive than that. You must choose to be a good person, and use your talents to help and promote the wellbeing of others. What you have done so far has been pretty reprehensible, and I can see that if you continue on the path that you have been taking up till now, things are only going to become worse given your talents and ambitions. People are going to get hurt. You must change your course here, it must be sincere and you must be committed to it, in your heart. Can you promise us that?’

‘I think I can’ says Thomas, gravely, nodding his head slowly, ‘I have changed, I can feel it, everything seems quite different and I, I _understand_ more now.’

‘Good, then I think we can help you if you do as we ask you.’ Aziraphale is kind and reassuring as he lays out what must be done.

‘You need to make a solemn vow to change. You will make it to the world, to us, because we are here to witness it, but most of all to yourself. The form of words is yours to choose but it must be done honestly and you must mean it. We shall both know if you do not. Take our hands and look to the sky as you make your promise.’

Aziraphale and Crowley offer their hands to Thomas who takes them, Aziraphale’s left hand in his right and Crowley’s right hand in his left. They prepare to enact some ancient magic, known only unto angels [1](%E2%80%9D#note1%E2%80%9D). Thomas looks into the sky, opens his eyes wide and makes his vow, promising wordlessly to be a better person while angel and demon sense the honesty of his intent as he makes his undertaking.

Once it is over, Thomas folds his hands in his lap. ‘Thank you both so much, that feels uhm, better somehow. W-what do we do have to do now?’ He looks at Crowley, apprehensively.

‘Listen to me,’ says Crowley, standing and pacing once more, ‘it is important that you are not afraid. I will help you forget and the angel here will put you back into the world again with the wound in your mind healed. You have to trust us. It will be fine.’

‘You can do that?’ says Thomas.

‘Yes, we can, and really, don’t worry, we have done this before.’ Crowley reassures him.

Thomas clears his throat and nods, ‘I will take my chance then.’

‘We should say goodbye now, you will not remember us afterwards, and it is best for you that you do not. It has been good to meet you.’ Aziraphale smiles and bows his head slightly.

‘It has been… interesting to meet you both, I never would have believed…’ Thomas breaks off, frowns and then continues, ‘but so many strange things have happened…. I, I am grateful, although it has been a little overwhelming’ he says, returning the smile with a tremulous one of his own.

‘Yeah, take it easy, and be good’ grins Crowley, sitting down again and facing Thomas.

‘Right, Thomas, take my hands, and look into my eyes.’

Crowley removes his glasses and holds Thomas’ hands in his. Thomas looks directly into the lean, clever face in front of him. He is soon absorbed in the gorgeous, golden eyes with their dark slits of pupils that seem to expand and contract while he gazes at them. Soon, he is only aware of the golden colour drawing him in, and a gradual numbness overwhelms him. After an age, he feels the pressure of the hands holding his loosening then the presence of another, warmer pair of hands enveloping his own. He is vaguely aware of the face of the angel, smiling at him and the fact that he is now looking into another pair of beautiful eyes, these a celestial blue/grey colour. They are immeasurably kind and very, very old. He feels loved and comforted. He smiles, happily, and after a time, his eyes flutter and close and he drops back against the slats of the bench. Aziraphale lowers Thomas’ hands and places them gently in his lap. He stands and joins Crowley on the pavement by the bench.

‘Crowley, may I take your arm? I feel in need of comfort, I am quite worn out.’ Aziraphale reaches for Crowley, takes his arm and leans against him for a brief moment.

‘‘Uh, yeah, ‘course, Angel’ says Crowley. He covers Aziraphale’s hand on his arm with his own and gives it a little squeeze.

‘That was kind of…intense,’ he says, ‘humans, eh? Occasionally more malignant than Hell could ever be, it’s that free-will thing of course, it’s a bugger.’

Aziraphale smiles, ‘Thank goodness we found him. Let us move a little way along the path and observe. I want to make sure he wakes up safely.’

They walk a short way along the path and stand beneath a tree, looking back to where Thomas still sits on the bench. It is getting light now with the grey glow of pre-dawn permeating the riverside scene.

Crowley chuckles, ‘Alan, Angel…?’

Aziraphale, tuts and blushes. ‘Oh I know, I don’t know where that came from, I was flustered. I normally use Ezra when I _have _to tell people my name. Mostly I make sure they don’t ask.’

They watch until Thomas stirs and sits up on the bench. He stretches and rubs his eyes, looking around him. He produces his phone from a pocket and switches it on, looking at it for a moment, then gets up. He begins walking towards where the angel and demon are standing.

‘Morning!’ Thomas calls out to them cheerily as he approaches, ‘looks like it will be another lovely day, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, indeed’, replies Crowley, ‘Lovely.’

‘Cheers, mind how you go’ Thomas throws the words behind him as he saunters off.

‘Listen, he’s _whistling_,’ Crowley mutters to Aziraphale.

‘Yes, an excellent sign my dear, and he didn’t recognise us, it is all looking very hopeful.’

He smiles fondly at his friend, and then looks serious, a little frown wrinkling his brow.

‘Of course the next few days are crucial – to complete the healing process that his mind requires, he must make the right decisions about his life using his own free will. I can only hope that he chooses wisely...’

‘Come on Angel, we’ve done all that we can, let’s go. I’ll walk with you to the book shop and if there’s any cocoa going…?’

‘Of course, anything you want. I would very much like to sit with you for a while, if you have nothing to rush back for.’

‘Yep, no problem, Angel, we have all the time in the world, don’t we?’

‘Indeed we do, my dear.’

The two beings, angel and demon, walk back along the river and then on in to Soho. They are quiet, not needing to talk, enjoying the peace of the early morning city and the unspoken comfort of knowing that they have each other.

  1. And demons, although they don’t generally bother using it. Crowley is special, but you knew that, right?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soft stuff folks, because I am soft.

_‘What have we given?_

_My friend, blood shaking my heart._

_The awful daring of a moment’s surrender._’ T.S. Eliot _The Wasteland_

Thomas walks into the room quietly, shutting the door behind him as gently as he can, hoping not to wake the occupant. Charlie sits up in bed, eyes wide. He has not been asleep all night, spending the hours just lying there fretting, and he has not heard Thomas using his key to get in to his flat.

‘Thomas! What the fuck? Where the hell have you been? I have been so worried. Why didn’t you call me?’

Charlie looks terrible, his face pale with dark smudges under his eyes. Thomas crosses to the bed and sits on the edge of it, reaching out to stroke Charlie’s hair away from his brow. Charlie jerks his head away, sharply.

‘Don’t do that! You don’t get to come here after six days of no contact and pretend everything is all right.’

Charlie’s face is pink with anger and misery. He had been frantic at not hearing from Thomas for the first few days, miserable at his inability to call or text him – his phone was obviously switched off. After a couple of days of leaving voice mails in which he tried to keep the neediness out of his voice so as not to irritate his partner, he had begun to believe that Thomas had moved on, ghosted him without a word of explanation. He had previously heard rumours about Thomas, been told more than once that he would get his heart broken, but he had chosen to ignore this as jealous gossip until the past few days when the words had returned to torture him. Seeing him now, reappeared in his life, smiling and looking concerned and loving causes a disconcerting mixture of relief and annoyance to flood though Charlie’s mind.

‘Charlie’, Thomas’ voice is low and sweet, causing shivers to run through Charlie’s body. ‘I am truly sorry, I, er, had to go away, to think, to sort some things out. I am very sorry that I didn’t call you, I know I should have, it is unforgivable, but I was pretty confused and I had some thinking to do.’

‘Oh, right, some thinking.’ Charlie sounds bitter, ‘so have you come here to dump me then? Tell me it is all over, that you made a mistake?’

‘Sweetheart, no, actually, I have come to apologise, to ask your forgiveness and see if you still want to, you know, you and me, give it a go…’

Charlie freezes. This is not what he was expecting at all. Thomas looks at the floor for a moment and then looks up.

‘Charlie? I realised while I was away that I really do care for you, you’re special to me. I know I have been, pretty, well, er, non-committal but I want that to change. Is there any chance you might…?’

He leans across to Charlie and lays his hand against his cheek, brushing his fingers along his jawline and looking into his eyes, his expression contrite and soft. They stare at each other for a heartbeat, then Charlie sighs and a little, rueful smile lights up his face.

‘You know I can’t resist you, you bastard.’

Thomas leans closer and draws Charlie into a kiss. He lingers there, their breaths mingling sweetly, tongues meeting, lips sliding across each other as the kiss deepens. Thomas bites Charlie’s bottom lip gently as he pulls away at last, and he looks into his eyes.

‘You are my darling and I am sorry that it took me so long to tell you.’

Charlie is overwhelmed, surprised, delighted. The kiss is so much more gentle and tender than the lusty embraces he has previously been used to. He opens his arms and Thomas shuffles along the bed and into the hug. They hold each other, Charlie nuzzling into his boyfriend’s neck.

‘Don’t you ever do that to me again, you big arse.’ He says, his words muffled by Thomas’ jacket. ‘I won’t, I promise’ he hears breathed into his ear.

Thomas sits up, holding Charlie by the top of his arms and grinning.

‘Tell you what, how about we go out for breakfast? On me? I’m absolutely famished and there is something I would like to discuss with you. How do you fancy a trip away this weekend?’

***

At the Soho bookshop of A.Z. Fell & Co an angel and a demon have been drinking cocoa for thirty minutes. Crowley is sprawled along the sofa in his customary way. Aziraphale sits in his armchair, holding his mug in both hands. The only noise is the gentle ticking of the longcase clock against the wall in the back room of the shop where they are sitting. Aziraphale places his mug on the floor and looks across at his companion, a worried frown creasing his forehead. He has been doing some thinking.

‘Crowley, I need to tell you something.’

‘What would that be, Angel?’ Crowley stops staring at the ceiling, sits up and puts his empty cup on the floor, swinging his legs down after it. ‘You make the best cocoa, I can never get it to taste right and sometimes, it just Hits.The. Spot. Other times, only alcohol will do. Anyway, you were saying?’

‘I need to apologise to you, Crowley.’

They haven’t really discussed what happened on the day of the apoco-not-alypse before they reached Tadfield. They have told each other what went on during their respective ordeals in Heaven and Hell, but no other discussion has taken place; some things were too raw to examine straight afterwards and they have both been too keen to enjoy their new-found freedom and closeness to bring up any difficult issues before now.

‘Apologise, Angel? What can you possibly have to apologise for?’

‘Watching you help that young man, I was thinking what a remarkable person you are and how lucky I am to know you,’ Aziraphale begins, earnestly.

Crowley puts up his hand and makes a soft growling noise in his throat.

‘No, don’t do your usual thing and tell me to shut up. I can say this now. No-one is watching us and we can no longer be punished for being whom and what we are. I have to apologise for not saying this sooner, for pushing you away when you were only trying to be there for me. For what I said that day at the bandstand…’

Aziraphale’s voice breaks here and he raises his hand to cover his eyes, the emotion of what he is saying filling them with tears. Crowley is across the room in a second, kneeling by Aziraphale’s chair, his hand on the angel’s knee.

‘I didn’t mean it Crowley. If you only knew how very much I wanted to be with you, how much I have…loved you, and for such a long time… it’s not a proper excuse, I know, but I can only explain by saying that I was a creature of _duty_ and that I felt that I must do what was _expected_ of me at that time. I thought I could get God to sort it all out and I didn’t want to abandon the humans, the world, it was tearing me apart…’

He raises his head, looking Crowley in the eye, his face pink with emotion and full of anguish.

‘Ngk, Angel, I…’

Aziraphale places trembling fingers along Crowley’s cheek.

‘Please my dear, let me finish saying what I need to tell you.’ He says, softly. Crowley nods and clasps the back of his hand in his own, holding it against his cheek and looking in wonder at his angel.

‘I need you to know that I am extremely proud to call you my friend, that I admire you, that you make me feel complete. We have known each other for over six millennia and in all that time you have never let me down. All the situations you have helped me out of, the times we have worked together and through it all I have loved you more and more. At first, I couldn’t even begin to admit it to myself, but it became harder to ignore: I loved my best friend, who happened to be a demon, and after a while, that didn’t seem so terrible to me.’ He sighs and with a little hitch in his voice, continues, ‘The problem was that I always knew it _should_, so I kept quiet and denied you. I know it hurt you, and I will always regret that. So I am sorry for all of that. There, it’s said, and I’m glad. I love you, Crowley, and I want to be open and honest about it from now on.’

A tear makes its way from the corner of the angel’s eye and rolls down his cheek. Crowley raises his hand and thumbs it away, kneeling up to place a kiss on the dear face in front of him.

‘Oh, Aziraphale,’ he sighs, ‘you must know that I love you too, always have. I didn’t want to abandon the humans either, I just wanted to make sure _you_ were safe.’ He smiles as he sees the angel’s eyes widen. ‘And I think I understand you better now.’

Aziraphale looks bewildered and raises his eyebrows in an unspoken question.

‘I’ll admit I was upset after, you know, but then everything happened and you were so magnificent. Even though you thought I had left and you got discorporated and transported back up to fight the stupid war, you didn’t give in. You found a way back here with the intention of trying to sort it all out, and you thought you were doing it all alone. That is pretty heroic in my book.’

He looks at Aziraphale, his eyes blazing with love, and continues to speak.

‘I was so relieved to see you after I thought you had been destroyed in the book shop fire that all the disagreements we had before seemed completely unimportant. I had you back. We were _together_. We worked together to stop the idiots starting another criminal war and we supported Adam, _together_. Gave him the push he needed to stand up to his father. I know we messed up a bit,’ he laughs, ‘we were rubbish at some points, but it all came right when it mattered and _I had you back_, that was all that was important to me. So you don’t need to apologise, you soft idiot, you.’

‘Oh Crowley, that means so much, thank you’. Aziraphale manages a watery smile.

‘What I meant about understanding though,’ continues Crowley, ‘when I was taken for my – well, strictly speaking _your_ punishment, er, _upstairs_, that was when I started to understand properly how things have been for you. When I saw how they treated you, how they spoke to the one decent angel I have ever met, the most loving, gentle, sweet being _ever_…’

Crowley’s face clouds over and the tone of his voice grows more irate as he remembers the look on Gabriel’s face: _‘shut your stupid mouth, and die already!’_ He brings Aziraphale’s hand down from his face and holds it in both of his, stroking it gently as he talks.

‘And how it is up there, so clinical and _unloving_. And how furious and _cold_ those bastards are with their sanctimonious judgements. I got it, why you were the way you were. It seems to me that the, thing, whatever you call it, bureaucracy, for want of a better word, has become completely divorced from the original intention of the Divine Being. They are so busy being correct, they have forgotten all about being good, or merciful or compassionate. They are abusive, Angel, and you have been abused by them for so long. It is no wonder it was so difficult for you to break free from all of that. It is pretty amazing that you managed it in the end.’

Crowley is so worked-up that Aziraphale decides not to tell him about being intimidated and assaulted by the group of angels that day. Remembering it reinforces Crowley’s words though, and he is doubly glad that he no longer has to deal with a group of beings with whom he no longer feels any fellowship at all.

‘I am so glad that we are down here with the humans, that we chose our faces wisely, that we have our side.’ He says quietly, gazing at his love.

Crowley watches as one of Aziraphale’s celestial smiles moves over his face, like a sunrise. He glows.

‘Just think Crowley, you helped a soul find salvation today, you were extraordinary. That has to be, how did you put it eleven years ago? A feather in your wing?’

Crowley blushes, ‘Knock it off, Angel, I am still a demon, I still have my wiles. Talking of which, can I tempt you to something?’

He leans forward, drawing Aziraphale into a hug, gently squeezing his angel with all the love he can muster, feeling glowing warmth as the emotion is returned by the intensely pleased ethereal being he has in his arms.

‘How about I take you out for breakfast, we could have crepes?’ he breathes into his ear.

‘You wily old serpent you, I would love that.’


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas makes amends with the help of someone he didn't previously know existed.

‘_His soul, long stupefied in a cold narrow prison, was unfolding too and trembling gradually into full consciousness._’ George Eliot _Silas Marner_

Thomas pulls up in front of his parents’ house in his car and looks across to Charlie, sitting in the passenger seat next to him. The journey down to Devon has been fun, singing along loudly to various old favourites on the playlist that Charlie had put together, laughing and enjoying each other’s company. Things were going so well.

‘Before you come in with me, I need to go in and speak to my parents alone, just for a couple of minutes, there are, er, a few things I need to say to them on my own first, before you come in.’

Charlie looks stricken, ‘Is it about…?’

‘No, it’s not about you or us, don’t worry, it’s about me and the way that I’ve been, erm…You know I haven’t seen them for a while and I need to explain stuff to them. Nothing to do with you, sweetheart, they will love you.’ He smiles at Charlie and leans over to kiss him briefly before turning to open the car door.

Thomas has told Charlie everything about his relationship with his family. He’s been so damned happy over the past few days, he just wants to make amends and have the people he cares about meet each other. The urge he feels to just _make things right_ with his parents is incredibly strong but he has no idea what he is actually going to say to them. He realises as he prepares to open the car door and step out that he probably hasn’t thought this through terribly well. His parents are very traditional and not ones for overt displays of affection or strong emotion. That is not to say that they don’t feel things strongly, just that they usually try to make the best of the situations that they find themselves in and have a rather old fashioned, stiff-upper-lipped approach to everything. He sets his face and stands on the driveway, shutting the car door and looking across at the familiar building. Better get on with it and just take it how it comes.

He fishes about in his pocket and finds the old keyring that has the parental house keys on it and approaches the house, walking past the front door and round to the back where the door enters directly on to the kitchen that is the warm heart of his parents’ home. They always sit over breakfast with the papers at this time on a Saturday morning so that is where they will be. He is aware that his heart rate is picking up as he turns the familiar handle and walks in, going past the small vestibule where the dog walking coats hang and muddy boots lie on the floor, just as they always did.

When he walks into the kitchen, the first thing he sees is his mother pouring coffee for his father, and they look just the same as ever. The kitchen looks the same too; George the golden retriever is asleep in his basket near the Aga. He sees his mother’s face change from an expression of surprise as she hears the door open to one of shock when she sees who is walking through it. She stands there, coffee pot in hand and looks across at him, her mouth slightly open and her eyebrows raised.

‘What is it Caroline?’ says his father, looking up from the paper he is reading. He turns around. ‘Oh.’ is all he says, and he looks at Thomas, his face echoing the shock in his wife’s.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

The sharp voice, coming from the other side of the room comes as a surprise to Thomas. Kate. He hadn’t considered that she might be here. There is someone else in the room too, a small someone who runs towards Thomas with enthusiasm. It is a little girl, a beautiful, tiny, tow-headed little sprite, her hair a mess, partly in a pony-tail but with tendrils that have escaped from it framing her small face in a tumble of curls. She is wearing red dungarees over a yellow sweatshirt and has a pair of cardboard wings painted in bright colours on her back.

‘I’m a butterfwy’, she announces, looking up at Thomas with bright blue eyes and stretching up her arms, her small starfish hands reaching out to him. He takes the hands in his, marvelling at their softness and how perfectly tiny they are.

‘You look more like an angel to me,’ he smiles down at her, ‘what’s your name, gorgeous?’

‘This is your niece, Effie’ says Kate, walking forward and placing her hand on the head of her daughter, ‘say hello to your Uncle Thomas, Effie’.

‘Hewow Uncoo Thomas’ says Effie, beaming up at him and then looking back at her mother, clearly delighted at the novelty of all this and oblivious to the tension of the adults in the room. Thomas keeps hold of the little hands in his and something clicks into place in his mind. This is what he needs, family, connections. All at once it makes a marvellous kind of sense to him. He wants his family back and to make some sort of family of his own, with Charlie, if he is willing. He clears his throat and looks over to his mother and father, and, not letting go of Effie’s hands, he says what he is here to tell them.

‘I have come to apologise, to try to make amends. I know I have not been a good son or brother but I really want to change that. I don’t blame you if you are sceptical, that would only be natural given the way I have behaved, but I would be very grateful if you could give me the chance to prove that I have changed. I would like to see more of you and be around for you all.’

Kate makes a quiet snorting noise and he knows he is going to have to work hard to convince her that he means what he says. His mother, however, is smiling and her eyes are glazed with tears.

‘We’ve missed you, darling,’ she says, and crosses the room, standing by Effie and placing her hand across his shoulders.

‘Thanks Mum,’ he says, feeling tears welling up in his own eyes as he kisses her on the cheek. She smiles and pats him on the arm ‘Better get on with things, dear’.

‘I’m going to walk George,’ says his father, getting up from his chair, ‘I’ll talk to you later Thomas, we can maybe have a drink before lunch.’

Thomas knows that there will be more serious words to be had between them later, and he is glad about that, as he feels he deserves some sort of talking to and wants the opportunity to tell his father that he has paid back the money that he owes to Papa and Grandma. It won’t be too bad though, he can tell. His father has never been a very forthcoming man. He smiles, gratefully, ‘Thanks Dad, that would be great’.

They are so understated, his mum and dad, but he understands that they are being good enough both to forgive him and not make a fuss about it, which is typical of them.

He turns to Kate, who rolls her eyes at him. ‘Effie, go and get your new book and maybe Uncle Thomas will read to you.’ Effie lets go of Thomas’ hands and runs off. Kate looks at him for a long moment.

‘Hurt them again and I will see to it that you regret it for the rest of your life, even longer, if I can manage it,’ she says to him in a low voice.

‘I promise I won’t. I realise what an idiot I have been. I really am very sorry.’ Thomas looks her in the eye, silently pleading with her to believe him. ‘Your daughter is beautiful, is her father here?’

Kate sighs, ‘We split up, it’s just the two of us now, he chose his work over his private life, so you can see that we don’t need any more bastards in our lives messing things up. Effie could do with more people around her so it would be nice if ‘Uncle Thomas’ can be relied upon.’ She says, drily.

Thomas smiles ‘I would love to spend time with you both, and there’s someone I would like you all to meet as well. I’ll go and get him, he’s in my car outside.’

‘Him?’ questions Kate.

‘Yes.’ Thomas’ grin gets even wider ‘He’s lovely, you’ll like him. My boyfriend, Charlie.’

Kate laughs, incredulous ‘You really take the biscuit Thomas, reappearing, apologising and coming out, all in one morning. You never did do things by half. Go get him then, I imagine you both want to stay for lunch?’

Thomas grins again, nods his assent and runs out to tell Charlie to come in. He really is the luckiest man in the world.

‘_In old days there were angels who came and took men by the hand and led them away from the city of destruction. We see no white-winged angels now. But yet men are led away from threatening destruction: a hand is put into theirs, which leads them forth gently towards a calm and bright land, so that they look no more backward; and the hand may be a little child’s._’ George Eliot, _Silas Marner_.


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to a bookshop. More fluff. Aziraphale smiles a lot. I'm a sucker for a happy ending.

A couple of months later, Thomas and Charlie are in Soho, looking for the old bookshop that Charlie’s dad used to frequent when he was a student. He had loved it there, he told his son, despite the odd opening hours and the fact that it was really very difficult to actually buy anything. Careful people [1](%E2%80%9D#note1%E2%80%9D) were welcome to browse and he had been lucky enough, on one occasion, to be offered tea and treated to an exceptionally interesting chat with the owner about Apuleius, his knowledge was so detailed, almost like he knew the man.

‘Oh great, it’s open. Dad says the chap who owns the place is a real original, loves his books, he must be about a hundred and eighty by now if he knew dad when he was young.’ Charlie enthuses. He pushes at the door of the book shop, hearing the genteel tinkle of the bell as he walks in, Thomas following on behind him. The interior of the shop seems dark after the bright autumn sunshine outside.

Aziraphale is in the middle of tea with Crowley and sighs when he hears the sound of the bell. He had been hoping to shut up shop about now and here are some dratted customers spoiling his afternoon. He leaves the back shop area, the words ‘I am so sorry but I am just about to close’ on his lips when he sees who is standing there.

Thomas’ eyes are getting used to the gloom when he sees a man coming towards him, all he can make out at first are blond curls haloed with light from the cupola above him. The features resolve into those of a middle-aged man with a slight frown on his rather sweet face that lifts as soon as he sees the two young men. There is a quirk of the primly set mouth, a slight widening of the eyes and then a glorious smile overtakes the previously rather peevish expression. His voice is soft with beautiful diction.

‘May I help you two gentlemen?’ he inclines his head, still smiling sweetly.

‘I’m looking for a present for my father’s birthday,’ explains Thomas, ‘Charlie’s dad recommended this shop, said that you stock beautiful books and some rare editions.’

‘How very kind of him to say,’ the owner looks pleased, ‘Do you know what you are looking for, a specific author, a work, an edition?’

‘I don’t know that much about books, to be honest. but I know he does like John Milton,’ ventures Thomas, ‘is there anything you can suggest that he might appreciate at all?’

‘Ah, what good taste he has [2](%E2%80%9D#note2%E2%80%9D). Milton, yes, I think I might have the very thing. Excuse me, I shall have to seek this one out in the back [3](%E2%80%9D#note3%E2%80%9D). Do take a seat, gentlemen.’ He hurries off.

Aziraphale hastens into the back shop and says quietly, ‘Crowley, it’s Thomas, do you remember? The young man that we – ‘

‘Yeah, Angel, of course I remember. He’s in the shop?’ Crowley stands and crosses to the door to have a look.

‘Yes, with another young man. I get the feeling that they are _together_.’ Aziraphale raises his eyebrows and smiles, looking delighted. ‘He’s buying a birthday present for his father. I think it may have _worked_.’ He is beaming. ‘I need to go and look out a book for him, something I think will be just perfect. I will tell you more after I find it.’

Thomas and Charlie sit on the upright chairs with the faded velvet upholstery that have been provided, it seems, for that very purpose.

Charlie nudges Thomas and whispers embarrassingly loudly, ‘Hot twink alert,’ indicating the door to the back shop with a sideways movement of his head. Thomas looks across and sees a lean, attractive looking man with gorgeous red hair, wearing sunglasses and impossibly tight trousers lounging against the doorframe, teacup in hand. He raises an eyebrow, clearly having heard Charlie, and gives him a little finger wave. Thomas blushes, ‘_Charlie_,’ he hisses. Charlie giggles, ‘Looks like Mr Fell’s doing alright there,’ he whispers, a little more quietly this time. ‘_Char-lie!_’ says Thomas again, laughing quietly and bumping his boyfriend’s shoulder with his own. He smiles at the man, still pink with embarrassment, and is rewarded with a rather sexy smile back.

Mr Fell reappears with a book held in a way that can only be described as _lovingly_ in his hands and holds it up so that they can see it. It is a slim volume bound in hard, dark brown leather. The binding is shiny with a patina accumulated over the years as it has been handled and read by human, and more recently, angel hands.

‘Milton’s _Areopagitica_, dating from 1644,’ says the book shop owner, ‘a wonderful defence of the principle of the right to free speech and freedom of expression at a time when the government thought to censor writing. Milton argues that as God endowed every one of His human creations with the reason, free will and conscience to judge things for themselves, they should be at liberty to evaluate the ideas in any written work rather than have the state restrict access to them. A most apposite text for our troubled times, I feel.’ Mr Fell smiles again as he hands the book to Thomas.

Thomas takes the small volume and opens it to see the beautiful title page, the paper an unblemished creamy white, despite its age [4](%E2%80%9D#note4%E2%80%9D). ‘A speech of Mr John Milton for the liberty of unlicenc’d printing,’ he reads aloud, ‘it’s wonderful, I think dad will love it.’ He looks up, ‘How much do you want for it?’

‘Oh, I think £50 will be sufficient,’ Mr Fell replies. Thomas looks at him with surprise at the low price for such a lovely thing and sees that he is smiling again, standing with his hands clasped in front of him and positively _radiating_ goodwill. Thomas gets the distinct feeling that he is terrifically pleased about something. ‘That’s…great, I’ll take it, thank you.’

‘Good, I will wrap it for you so that it doesn’t get damaged on your way home.’ Mr Fell shimmers off to the small counter near the back of the shop where the old-fashioned cash register sits and busies himself with paper and string.

Crowley is amused. He walks over to his angel and watches as the small volume is wrapped meticulously by his clever fingers.

‘You sold a book, Angel,’ he says, a chuckle in his voice ‘a seventeenth century first edition _for fifty pounds_.’

Aziraphale murmurs so that only Crowley can hear, ‘Yes, my love, I’m extremely pleased, so it’s worth it. He has clearly made good choices for the rest of his life and…’

He looks up at Crowley, warm eyes shining with all the love he feels for the beautiful being beside him.

‘…if he is even a quarter as happy as I am now, he deserves this. It is my gift to him for having the courage to go through with his repentance and because he loves his father enough now to think of finding something that will please him. It has all worked out and I couldn’t be happier.’ He blows Crowley a kiss and sails back out to the front of the shop to give the book to Thomas.

‘Wish your father a happy birthday from me and all the very best to you both for the future.’

The shop owner twinkles at the two men as he takes the note Thomas is holding out, presenting him with the wrapped book. Thomas smiles back and takes Charlie’s hand.

‘Thank you so much, you have been very helpful, thank you for _everything_.’ He doesn’t quite know why he has said that, exactly, but it feels appropriate somehow. Mr Fell bows his head briefly in acknowledgement, holds the door of the shop open for them both, and they walk out into the late afternoon sunshine.

***

‘I think some jolly good wine is in order, don’t you Crowley?’

‘Absolutely, Angel, we done good’.

‘Come to my arms, dear, and kiss me, and then we must find the corkscrew, I have the perfect bottle I was saving for just this kind of occasion…’

Crowley blushes, as yet unused to this new demonstrative Aziraphale. Angels are rather overwhelming when they are happy, and he has seen Aziraphale happier than he thinks he has ever been over the last few weeks, blossoming under it like a desert after rain. It can be all a bit much for a demon starved of love for six millennia, but he wouldn’t change it, not even for the world, so he does as he is bidden swinging his angel into his arms and kissing him.

Were Thomas and Charlie to look through the bookshop window now, they would see a red and blond head together in a close embrace, and the air in the shop sparkling with a mixture of angelic and demonic love.

And the Almighty looks down at the scene and thinks ‘No fuck ups this time, well done boys’.

***

_It was from out the rinde of one apple tasted, that the knowledge of good and evill as two twins cleaving together leapt forth into the World. And perhaps that is the doom which Adam fell into of knowing good and evill, that is to say of knowing good by evill. As therefore the state of man now is; what wisdom can there be to choose, what continence to forbeare without the knowledge of evill?_

John Milton, _Areopagitica._

  1. Carefully vetted by Aziraphale as to the cleanliness of their hands and what they were inclined to use as bookmarks. Extra merit points were awarded for gentle handling of the older volumes in the collection. Habitual creators of dog-eared pages and cracked spines found that they could never locate the shop when they went to look for it again.
  2. Milton would have been pleased to know that an actual angel admires his work.
  3. The system of arrangement that Aziraphale uses in his book shop is unique to him. He studied the pioneering work of Melvil Dewey in the 1880s and later on that of the scholars of the Library of Congress in order to learn what not to do. His cataloguing system would make strong Librarians weep. Those browsing in his shop remain in a state of acute bewilderment; it looks really organised until you get up close and try to work things out, which is a course of action best avoided unless you want a horrible stress headache.
  4. Seventeenth century paper is amazing.

**Author's Note:**

> I started wondering exactly what it would do to someone if they could remember all the horrible things that happened at the start of what was going to be the End of The World in Good Omens. How would anyone cope with remembering that stuff. And then I thought, what if someone did remember, and there was a reason for that and that an angel and a demon were supposed to sort it all out as part of the Ineffable Plan? Then I remembered a character from the radio comedy 'Old Harry's Game, an irredeemable villain called Thomas and it all started to fit together and I had to write it. If you like the humour of Good Omens, do check out 'Old Harry's Game', it is set in hell and is hilarious, with the added bonus of some rather interesting discussions on the nature of evil and redemption.


End file.
